An intrusion

I’m at an age now where my poor old body is beginning to turn traitor.  I wish that in the past I’d regarded it more as a beloved pet dog – fed it a lean diet, taken it for regular exercise.

Recently my number came up for bowel cancer screening.  I’d heard nothing about this program and suspected an elaborate practical joke.  But when the enema kit arrived in the post, the joke was over.

As if that wasn’t enough, the wee infection I had before Christmas (wait a minute, am I really blogging about my own urine infection? Is disinhibiton another sign of old age?)…..as I said, my urine infection before Christmas led to my GP noticing traces of blood in my urine samples.  Next stop, a cystoscopy.

Yep.  Another camera where I never expected to find one.  Getting those bits of my anatomy to smile was going to be challenging.  

And although the two procedures were to take place in different hospitals, by coincidence, they were scheduled on consecutive days this week.

No wonder my end-of-term celebrations were somewhat muted.

I told Pascoe and he offered me a “bright spot” – under the data protection act I can demand a copy of the video footage taken of my colon and bladder. 

We could show them to our guests as after-dinner entertainment.  Thus trumping the whole holiday photo/wedding video experience.

So during the procedures, I twisted to assess the monitor.  My bladder was fine, although it did look a bit like an alien’s den in Star Trek.  But I actually felt quite proud of the journey through my pink, healthy looking colon.  Except where the enema hadn’t been completely thorough, which made me feel unaccountably ashamed.  I guess it’s not every day you get to watch a live broadcast of your own poo in a small room full of strangers.

So, bottom line (bottom line – ha ha) is that I didn’t ask for the video. After this week’s goings on I have just a shred of dignity left and I intend to hang on to it.

CBT - my therapy of choice

Hawfinch

Recently, there's been a lot going on chez nous: Nigel's father died and the twins moved out.
My normal therapy would be to strike out on long walks. But the operation which was supposed to fix my foot got cancelled just before Christmas, so I can only do short strolls.

So instead I'm seeking comfort in an old interest - bird-watching.

The kids say it's okay to be a nerd nowadays - even fashionable - I do hope they're right.
Caroline took me to see fluffy tree sparrows.
Angela directed me to a great place to spot green sandpipers bobbing in the stream.
I dragged Carol, Caroline and Diane on hawfinch safari in a breezy churchyard. 

"Where are you off to?" asked Perran.

"To see hawfinches."

"What? - You going to find them sashaying up and down the fence, trying to attract male finches?"

No Perran.  Not spelt that way.

In fact, I had always wanted to see these brightly coloured finches with a bill that can crack a cherry stone.  Luckily there were some reports  - on twitter of course. 

In the icy weather Caroline and I added siskin and redpoll to the list.

I don't know how to confess this:

I think I may have become a twitcher. 

I can feel my wrist making an involuntary ticking motion each time I spot a new species.

Of course it's not cool.
But when I'm down, it's the kind of CBT I need - Cute Bird Therapy.

Binoculars at the ready

Missing you

So the twins moved out. 

Some, although very definitely not ALL of their gear has gone with them.

Just like a beach during one of those especially low tides at Easter, parts of their bedrooms were exposed that hadn’t seen the light of day in months.

It stimulated in me a primitive urge to clean.  One that I am normally able to overcome. 

But perhaps cleaning would make me feel better.

Faced with the carpet under their beds, the hoover gave an asthmatic wheeze and demanded to be emptied.

It also became obvious that many of the shampoos/skin scrubs and cleansing products which STILL jostled for position on the bathroom shelf never were going to be used again, and could now be recycled.

But just as I had my sleeves rolled up and a black bag gaping, I heard a key in the door.

Perran was home.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a couple of days’ holiday and we haven’t got wi-fi connected yet.”

I think our central heating may have been an added attraction.

Although obviously I have been telling everybody that it was just that he missed me so much!

However, it’s the weekend and he’s gone again now, and I’m on my way upstairs once more to attack the ‘dust bunnies’ under his bed.

Actually, I’ve just had a good look at them – make that ‘dust rhinos’.

Making it better with sparrows

At the weekend a terrible accident on the M5 made my drive to my parents in Cornwall take 8 hours.  It is lovely to see my parents, but each time there are new challenges brought on by old age.  I was tired when I got back on Monday night.

I spent Tuesday doing my half term marking.

Then Wednesday my lovely friend Angela came to say goodbye before going with her husband to live in Scotland.

Wednesday night we drove to Northumberland, ready for Nigel’s Dad’s funeral the next day.   We arrived back Thursday night. 

And did I mention? - the twins had spent the week when not at work or funerals, gathering their gear in order to leave home and move into a rented flat at the weekend.

So by Friday, I may very well have been depressed and knackered. 

Actually I was mainly stunned.

But as I say, I might have been in a bad way.

Divining this, Caroline asked me if I’d like to go looking for tree sparrows. 

I had never seen a tree sparrow before.

We set off.

The gravel workings had been expanded, which made it difficult to figure out where we were on our elderly OS map.

But we saw a muntjac, and on the gravel pits shovellers, gadwall and a mass of herons.

Then finally, in a hedge, seven beautiful fluffed-up tree sparrows.

The only thing better than the sparrows was Caroline taking me to see them.

Thank you for a good thing in a bad week, Caroline.

The Very Last Gift

My friend Carole Heselton writes:

“Perhaps the death of a parent is the last gift they give us.  It’s a chance to reflect on what we ourselves have become and to see the life of our parent led in its entirety, rather than a work in progress.”

Years ago, I heard the advice of the mystic John O’ Donohue that we must grow to know our own death and to befriend it, but I did not quite know what he meant.

Over the last ten days, my father-in-law Maurice has died slowly and comparatively peacefully after a long illness.  There has been time for his children and grandchildren to travel to his bedside and say farewell. 

There is deep sorrow for his parting, but gladness at an end to his suffering.

For a long time, as he was incapacitated by Parkinson’s disease, his successful career and his energetic charity work have seemed to lie in the unreachable past.

However, now is the time to get all these accomplishments out and admire them once more.

But at this time of stock-taking, I can see that Maurice’s greatest achievement is not his deeds in themselves, but that there are people who will want to recall them – people who loved him while he was alive and will miss him now he is gone.

In seeing this, it helps me to know more of the kind of death I would wish for myself and should work towards.

Thank you Maurice.

Leak

Since last August, there has been a plastic tub on our kitchen floor, collecting the water that came through the ceiling.

It started off as a shy dribble of droplets. 

Any attention from anybody and it would discreetly dry up.

Twice we thought roofers had mended it and paid them handsomely.

Each time, the leak waited until their vans had disappeared into the distance, ladders jangling wildly, before it reappeared.

In the last couple of months, however, it has gained confidence and has become a gushing, bubbling cascade, appearing EVERY time it rains.

We changed roofers and were impressed by the expertise and diligence of our current crew.

“It’s done,” they said, “That leak won’t trouble you any more.  If you could just BACS us, we’ll be back in the morning for the scaffolding.”

Luckily, that very night, it rained heavily.

Like a mafia boss, drunk on his own importance, our leak forgot to play hide-and-seek and poured in.

I discovered the water on the floor using my sophisticated leak detection technique – I walked into the kitchen in my stockinged feet.

When he returned, the roofer scratched his head, “Well, I suppose it could be the window that’s leaking.”

We had new windows installed a year ago.

Using a hose, he proved it was definitely the window.

So, Leak, I have you running scared now.

All we have to do is get the window people back.

Whom, needless to say, we have already paid in full.

Interesting Device

Living with grown-up offspring is not at all like living with little children.

The other day, I popped into the bathroom and came to a standstill.

There on the side of the bath was…a device.

I did not recognise it, but then, I’ve led a sheltered life.

Could I deduce what it was for?

In shape it was tall and thin with a nozzle at one end and a hand grip at the other.

On the side was the brand name – NiceFeel.

There was a button with settings – Normal, Soft, Pulse.

Gingerly, I put it back down.

How to deal with this?

I decided that I would just leave it where it was. 

The owner would soon spot it and put it away.

Twenty-four hours later, it was still on the side of the bath.

Perran was even in there washing his face as if there was nothing the matter.

I could stand the suspense no longer.

“Perran….what is that thing on the side of the bath?”

“Oh – that’s my oral irrigator – it’s for flossing your teeth but with a high-powered jet of water, instead of  tape …look!”

“Oh.  Okay.”

“I swear by them.  In fact, this is my second one – my first wore out. Here.”

He pulled another similar device from the bathroom cupboard.

“If it’s broken, why have you kept it?”

“Not sure how to recycle it.”

“Well, your Dad’s an expert on recycling waste electrical items.  Why don’t we just leave it for him on his bedside table?”

*             *             *

7pm: Nigel has arrived home and gone upstairs to change.

Startled voice from upstairs:  “For Pete’s sake, what on earth is THIS?”

Weekend Stew

When the twins fell back to earth after graduation / gap year , they landed at our house.

Office hours plus commute means they are not home much. 

Fortunately very many of their friends have ended up living and working nearby in London. 

So weekends are particularly unpredictable. I have joked about installing an enormous cat flap.

On the bright side, I have developed a new cuisine - Weekend Stew.

I got out my cavernous witch's cauldron from its semi-retirement at the back of the cupboard and I stew up beans, onions and root vegetables and frankly anything else in the fridge that appears to be on its last legs. I make it delicious with olives and capers, or garam masala, or smoked paprika, and serve with a hillock of brown rice.

Weekend stew divides up between any number of diners. It can be heated up at 3am when one returns from a party. It can be stretched to accommodate guests.

Only problem is I'm tiring of it. Yesterday I'm sure I caught the black-eyed beans staring at me reproachfully as I surreptitiously heated up a pizza. 

However in a few weeks the twins plan to be gone - off to rented bliss - and our weekends will become predictable once more.

So for the moment, Weekend Stew it is!

Storm Eleanor

I come from Cornwall where the weather’s important.

It’s important for farmers when they take in the harvest.

It’s important for fishermen so they don’t sail right into a storm.

It was a common practice for a fishing village to have a communal barometer in the harbour.

But there are also more traditional ways of telling the weather.

If the swallows are flying low, it means it will rain.

If a piece of dried seaweed becomes slimy it means high humidity.

If a fir cone opens up its scales, it means fine weather.

If the cows are lying down, it means rain.

And my personal favourite:

If you can see clear to St Austell clay tips it means it’s going to rain.   If you can’t see St Austell clay tips, it means it’s already raining.

But for the violent forces of Storm Eleanor, just passed, only one piece of weather lore would do.

And it was discovered by my Uncle John, who wasn’t even Cornish.

He said:

“You can tell if it’s very windy indeed….the seagulls will be flying backwards.”

Traditional weather forecasting at Betty's Bothy, Orkney, last summer.

Review of the year

The media have been reviewing the year just gone.
E.g. The Year in Politics.
The very thought is exhausting. 
I can review the last fortnight maybe.

Our dishwasher broke just before Christmas and we imagined a cruel God laughing at us.
Then John the Appliance Superhero arrived, gave the device some sort of Heimlich manoeuvre and out popped a pistachio shell. 
Carenza WhatsApped "Can you imagine a more middle class item to find in your dishwasher pipe? "
Dan apparently could and nominated a single Bendicks bittermint, a Kettle chip or a maths tutor.

Christmas en famille - v good
Boxing Day Walk with chums - v muddy
Lunch with new friends - v companionable

Then to Northumberland.
In spite of snow and ice Nigel managed to take his parents on two outings, including the seaside, wheelchair and all.
However we then snatched failure from the jaws of success when our parked car slid backwards down the steep icy drive and into the garage door.

And how did we spend the last moments of 2017?
With our friends, playing charades.
Which takes us right back to The Year in Politics - you can't have more of a charade than that.

Pascoe, Josh and John - reunited on Boxing Day

Book Group Envy

I recently received proof that Carenza is a proper grown up lady. For some mums this would have happened when their daughter turned twenty-one, for others when she started work.
But for me it was when she announced that she and her girlfriends had formed a book group.

I admired their maturity and applauded their first choice - The Power by Naomi Alderman.

But then I saw a photo of them.

Why doesn't my book group look like this?

I have begun to experience Book Group Envy.
On the bright side, we have superior life experience....and weight. And volume.

Not sure whether these are the criteria by which one is supposed to judge a successful book group but they are certainly qualities which I shall henceforth be promoting.

Card seen in Oxfam.

How to get straight to the top without New Year Resolutions

Feeling slightly seedy after Christmas feasting, we are easy prey for the New Year’s Resolution.

We will make a promise to eat less/exercise more/ read improving literature/ take up fretwork.

The aim is to become better people.

The result will be that most of the forthcoming year will be clouded with a nebulous sense of failure.

So I’m asking you to think first.

There is a simpler way of doing this.

Next time you are ordering something on the Internet, or registering for an organisation, take a look at their drop-down list of titles – some of them contain the full range of options, from Ms to Viscountess.

You can select any one you like – the cursor does not contain a lie detector.

I sometimes choose Brigadier – to have attained such heights without serving a distinguished career in the army!

Then the person delivering my package will look at me with respect, for in their eyes, I am a brigadier.

The only time I regretted it was when we moved house and I lost some Tate tickets I had ordered months before.  Sue and I arrived at the ticket desk where I was confident I could explain myself:

“I bought two tickets in the name of Clare Hobba…”

“Nope – no record of a purchase in that name.”

Sue and I exchanged a worried glance – we had both travelled in specially.

I tried Nigel’s name and even my middle name, but they still did not recognise my purchase.

Finally, the woman squinted at me sternly:

“You didn’t call yourself Princess Cynthia Hobba did you?”

“Erm.  Yes.  That was very likely me.”

“What is your address?”

Dimly, I gave my current address – not the previous one from which I’d ordered the tickets.

More stern staring, even after I’d explained.

“I’m very sorry I gave a false name.  I shall never do it again.”

“Nor a false title, nor a false address…” muttered Sue in the background.

God With Us

At Christmas, we have only two firm family traditions.

On Christmas Eve we attend the beautiful sung evensong at St Albans Abbey – or The Annual Festival of Coughing, as we call it.

On Christmas morning we go to our own church, St Luke’s.

At quiet moments in the services I pray for people I know who are sad, ill or bereaved.  Then I move on to considering the year ahead and praying that God be with us.

And this year, I have already received a blessing.

Let me tell you the story:

This morning we attended our church.  SO MANY people we knew were there for Christmas.  And so were their children, grandchildren, aunts and uncles. 

We circulated around the church to exchange the handshake of peace with everybody. 

We processed up in front of everybody to receive communion.

Then back again.  

In front of everybody.

But it was not until I got home that the pants which had been caught up my trousers in the wash fell out onto the floor.

As I say – a blessing.

Not too Christmassy

We always had a Christmassy outing with the children.  We have continued, but sometimes I miss their youthful awe and excitement.

The train into London was packed with families.  Nigel, Pascoe, Carenza and I were split up down the carriage. (Perran was arriving later.)  Two toddlers, high on tic-tacs, were clambering over my knees.  

Their dad said,

“We’re going to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park.  It’s cost us a fortune.”

In his eyes, mingled hope and defeat.  Wonderland could never match up to their anticipation. 

And probably one of the kids would be sick.

If not all of them.

Our own day centred round the very grown-up play about the IRA, The Ferryman, by Jez Butterworth.

Beforehand we visited the free exhibition of Degas drawings at the National Gallery, then grabbed an Itsu. 

Nigel was on map duty and we even had the experience of walking through a narrow ally full of sex shops and adult bookshops – not something we had previously included in our family Christmas outing.  But apparently, the most direct route between Itsu and the Gielgud Theatre.

Then the riveting, enthralling play.

After the play, we went to Freud’s for a cocktail or two and Dan joined us.  I enjoyed the banter over my virgin mojito.

On the way home on the Tube, we watched a Mummy imploring her three very young children to stop licking the train windows.  

"They may be dirty."  

She was clearly a master of understatement.

And I was glad after all to be missing out on the traditional finale to the Christmas outing - rushing home to wrestle weepy small children into bed. 

Carenza with the Kings Cross Christmas Tree

Where Lost Balloons Go

Months ago I began to photograph lost balloons.

I didn't really know why.

They don't seem very photogenic.

But each one carries a story we shall never fully know.

Once they were part of somebody's plan for jollity.
But they slipped from captivity and escaped into the wild blue yonder.
Only to discover that the waiting world was hostile.

Although maybe the balloons that I come across are a biased sample - the ones that didn't get away.
Perhaps others are bobbing happily together high in the ether.
I'd like to think so.

However, on Saturday I spotted somebody in Huntingdon town centre.  As soon as I saw him, I knew that he was the missing part of the story.

At last, right in front of my eyes was the individual who looked as if he had lost all those balloons.

A sad clown laid low by the practice of balloon art.

Whatever Happened to Nigel and Clare?

When the children left for University it was the end of twenty-one years of family life. 

We would be brave and stand back while they found their wings.

We expected to be sad, and for a time we were.

But soon we found compensations.

Just to go out on a Saturday and enjoy lunch and a walk with Gill and Graham, Nick and Jackie or Jenny and Terry.  

Without having to make a picnic for my whole voracious family.

We could even afford a pub lunch when it was just two of us.

And then the twins graduated and returned home.

We know it’s temporary, so we are enjoying their company while we have it.

But this Saturday, as we tried to lure them on a day out, Christmas party aftermath overlapped with urgent shopping and they declined blearily.

I was tempted to stay home.

Nigel said “We should still go.”

So we drove to Grafham Water where I proved myself a hopeless nerd by getting overexcited by goldeneye and goosander ducks. The words “Just look at that!” may have been over-used.

Then we explored the twinkly market town of Huntingdon, drifted into a few shops, appreciated a Mediaeval church and bridge. 

As we drove home, I said to Nigel, “That was a good day.”

Meanwhile, the twins had begun to text us. 

Looked like we’d see them tomorrow.

As if we cared!

Just Stop

A few years ago when I trained as a teacher, I had a placement in rural North Hertfordshire.  Showing me round,  the pupils focused on the most important thing of all – the procedure for snow days.  

It was only September, but they already had an eye on a day off.  And I quite liked the prospect too.

From that day to this, however, there has been no snow day in Hertfordshire.  Until today.

Even today there is not really a snow day off school as it is Sunday. 

However, there is the same delightful feeling that whatever we were going to do today, it will not be done. 

And it is not our fault.

It’s a very busy time of year, preparing cards, gifts, food and social life for Christmas.  But today it’s as if God just shook his finger at us and said “Shush now – doesn’t really matter.  Settle down.”

We put on our boots and did the things that counted - got to church, called on an elderly neighbour, filled the bird feeders.

But then everything slowed down – home made bread, the wood-burner lit, an old film on the telly.

And a nourishing day’s rest in Advent.

Happy Hair

The order in which information is delivered really matters, and this Saturday proved it.

We had just been en famille to see the Tove Janssen (Moomin) Exhibition at Dulwich Picture Gallery.

I find it particularly poignant to revisit activities which I associate with my children when they were small and innocent on a day when they are bleakly hung-over and straining not to be surly.

Afterwards, we parted on Dulwich High Street when Perran went off to get a haircut. 

“Be careful,” warned Carenza “– Could be pricey here.”

Nigel and I were on the train going home when texts started to arrive from Perran.

IT WAS SEVENTEEN POUNDS

--------

£70

--------

SORTED OUT MY EYEBROWS AND GAVE ME SOME AFTERSHAVE

--------

THEY JUST KEPT GIVING ME FREE BEERS AND NICE COFFEE

--------

ALSO HAD THE NICEST HAIRCUT

--------

I MISHEARD

--------

BUT ALSO DID EXPECT IT

--------

From this, we figured Perran had gone into a nice barber’s, asked the price, misheard, had a great experience but then been horrified at the true price.

We felt a little sorry for him until he came home and explained that his texts had arrived with us in the wrong order.  Looking back at his phone, there was a very different story.

He had asked the price only after the haircut.  By this time, he had received such amazing service that he feared it would be expensive.  

He DID mishear – what he heard was £70.  

What they actually charged him was £17.  

The story was one of triumph NOT disaster.

And significantly, it was also a story of beer.

The Sound of God Laughing

They say “If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans.”

The plan was that I was to have a foot operation to relieve painful wear and tear.  I would be off my feet for six weeks. 

I had painstakingly arranged my teaching work around the operation.

I had done the Christmas shopping and made the cards. 

The only part of it I was looking forward to was reading books by the fire.

Nigel booked a long weekend in Falmouth, so we could see my parents, but also spend time together before the operation.

Then, only a week before, I received a phone call.  My surgeon had a family emergency and had cancelled his operating list. 

After Christmas was no good for me.  I would have to be back at work.

It was all off. 

However, we continued with the trip to Falmouth. 

Romantically, we caught the sleeper from Paddington.

We explored the coasts of the Fal Estuary – golden hedgerows under cobalt skies, and the wistful cry of the curlew.  We visited twinkly craft fairs and cosy tea rooms. It was a brochure-perfect break.

But lulled by my pleasure in the trip, I let one of my rules slip.

On our last night I ate an oyster – part of a starter.  I love shellfish, but, as they say, they don’t always love me.

The train on the way home was wedged crowded and it was like a game of Twister to get to the loo.  However, this didn’t stop me being sick.  To minimise this, I didn’t drink anything.  For five hours.

By Paddington, I had a teeth-chattering temperature.

By Tuesday, still high temperature and bad pains in new places.

Doctor suggested I submit a urine sample.  It was so evidently murky that I was almost proud as I handed it over at reception.

I had managed to transform my food poisoning into a urine infection.

At home, waiting for the antibiotics to kick in, I decided that after all, I would have just one afternoon by the fire reading a book.

And at least that went to plan.

SADLY, NO PHOTO OF ME  THROWING UP ON THE TRAIN!

You Have Saved the Best 'til Last

Driving down the dual carriageway, I peer out the windscreen and say anxiously to Nigel, “How much longer will they last?”

“Another week maybe?  Not long?”

I love Autumn.  Did I mention?

I love the way that trees which seem a uniform green in Summer each choose a different colour.  The beeches are copper, the birches gold.  I love the way the spindle tree, drab and insignificant for ten months of the year suddenly becomes the Rupaul of the hedgerow - camp pink berries and fabulous, flame coloured foliage. 

But now the leaves were nearly all over for another year.

I was supposed to be going for a last Autumn walk with Carol, but unfortunately something came up.

I decided I’d go anyway.

It was early, bright and frosty.

And the colours took my breath away.

This wasn’t so much the end of Autumn as a grand finale.

As an empty-nester, one of my preoccupations is a regret for the passing of time and the shift from one generation to the next.

But when I saw the trees that morning, a phrase from the Gospels kept going through my head – “You have saved the best 'til last.”

Pigeon postscript

1^st pigeon:  “Sparrowhawk! Sparrowhawk! Let’s get out of here!”

2^nd pigeon: “But wait, aren’t we flying directly towards some artwork by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, that master of Art Nouveau design?”

1^st pigeon:  “I don’t care!  There’s a sparrowhawk, I tell you!”

Me from the sitting room:  “Did anybody else hear that loud bang at the kitchen door?”

Sadly the Charles Rennie Mackintosh window decals haven’t worked.

(The picture above is the print of fine dust which a pigeon leaves when it hits our patio door.)

Charles Rennie Mackintosh and Pigeons.

I have never before asked myself whether pigeons might like the Art Nouveau designs of Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

But I am about to find out.

In our garden, we have a cluster of bird feeders.  They attract every kind of finch and titmouse.

Woodpigeons lumber beneath, hoovering up dropped seeds.

However, five times now, we have discovered the complete, yet ghostly, outline of a pigeon in flight on our patio door.  

When they hit glass hard, fine dust flies out of their feathers and makes a print.

But why are they zooming into our patio door?  

There’s no window on the other side to trick them into thinking there’s a through-route.

Fact is, we’ve made our garden such a great place for sparrows that we’ve also attracted a sparrowhawk, skimming stealthily along the hedge, scaring the grit out of our little birds.

I’m guessing it’s blind panic that stops the pigeons from spotting our door.

So how to warn them off?

At the weekend, we visited 78 Derngate, a house designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh.  I oohed at the luminous stained glass,  aaahed at the detailing in the woodwork.

But the best thing of all was in the gift shop – window decals.

“Do you think the pigeons will appreciate Art Nouveau?”

“Maybe not, but they’ll enjoy not bashing themselves on the glass….And besides, there aren’t any Art Deco decals here so they'll just have to make do.”

My Family and Other Animals

Pascoe was home for the weekend. Although we’ve had holidays together, it’s the first time he’s been home this year.

It was time to become Mumzilla.

I put out a three-line whip.  For one Saturday, we would ALL do something together. 

But what?

Lately I’ve felt nostalgia for Whipsnade Zoo.

But it was risky – the forecast was cold and rainy.

More than that – nostalgia can backfire - it’s not always wise to go somewhere you have fond memories of.

We went.

Sure enough some old friends were missing.

Where were the white wallabies?  Where Horatio Hornbill?

Until we went back, we had been able to imagine Horatio still perkily offering gift-twigs to visitors.  But now…

We had to rescue the day, and fast.

We rushed to lay down some new memories.

I will always remember sleek lionesses playing with giant bags of rustling paper and catnip only feet from us, like lethal kittens.

And the warmth of the butterfly house where dazzling blue morphos alit delicately on our shoulders.

Only the dusk persuaded us to go home.

We had planned to go out to a fireworks display, but there was something we had forgotten.

The perfect end to a tiring day at breezy Whipsnade is to snuggle down by the fire. 

And that’s what we did.

Nigel lays an egg: flamingos outraged!

Three-line Whip